


I Can't Be In Love If It's Plastic

by Vituperative_cupcakes



Category: Snuff Box (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mancrush, Pining, attempted sofa sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1472629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vituperative_cupcakes/pseuds/Vituperative_cupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt had no idea of the consequences when he brought Rich to the club. I.e. falling for Rich's chubby arse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can't Be In Love If It's Plastic

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for this came from the fact that when Rich says he's a great kisser, Matt finishes his sentence. I can't be the only one that saw that, am I? 110% crack.

One of life's fleeting moments of uncertainty struck Matt when he first brought Rich to the club. His new acquaintance was a boorish yank, undoubtedly, and prone to buffoonery, skylarking and backsass. Also, he was a complete asshole. But this was part 32 of Matt's thousand-part plan to annoy the hell out of his fellow clubbers. No, the only worry was getting rid of the American, should he become a nuisance to Matt himself. 

Bringing Rich into the club turned out to be a spectacularly bad idea for completely unrelated reasons.

Matt fell in love with him.

It had all the makings of a brilliant day: Rich had dropped Prince Albert's original can, wiped his arse with the club edict, and stuck his tongue down a visiting dignitary's throat. And that was just the first ten minutes. Matt bubbled over with amusement as he watched Rich bounce from table to table like an bawdy terrier, flinging his leg out with drunken enthusiasm, smiling adorably...

Whoa, cool tool. What?

Rich was beneath contempt. He would have to climb a stepladder to even touch the bottom of the barrel. And yet, as Matt watched the ensuing chaos like a game of perverted pinball, something stirred inside him. Something he immediately tried to drown with whisky.

Matt tested him. He stole his women, gaffled money from him, even poisoned him. And yet Rich never once declared their friendship over. He'd been so close, he'd thought, when Rich told him “you can be so fucking cruel.” He thought soon, Rich would leave from his constant onslaught of abuse.  
It never came. Hell's ballsack, he'd cuckolded him on his wedding day! But Rich took it all in stride, in his own obscenely Zen way.

It was that moment, with his gentleman's brigade still wet with Rich's lady love, gazing down at the man himself laughing radiantly, that Matt fell stupidly in love with him. It wasn't just the way he smiled, slow and secret, when they sat across from each other at the club. The way he wet his mouth, the way he sighed nasally when he was reading, or even his arse(though it was fine). It was how bloody forgiving he was, how eager to please Matt. Women were fickle creatures, so focused on “feelings” and “sensitivity” and “not having sex with the maid during her dad's funeral.” Rich was like a dog. Especially when it came to sticking his nose in other peoples' crotches. 

Matt tried very, very hard not to love him, but that didn't work. Then he tried drowning Rich in a sea of the choicest trim, hoping that the tide of heterosexuality would deluge his bicuriosity. Dammit, why did Rich have to make eye contact during an orgy?

Matt learned to make peace with the fact that he would never be able to live his giant mancrush on this doofus down should it ever see the light of day. It was ridiculous. So ridiculous he would never be able to tell Rich how he felt. The man would laugh, as he had been trained to laugh at anything tender through Matt's influence. 

Mat ran down the list of options:

He could kill Rich. 

Tried. Couldn't.

He could get Rich deported. 

Hell, if throwing up on the queen mother hadn't gotten him shipped off back to Pricksburg, Cockachusettes, nothing would.

He could get Rich interested in a lady. 

This wouldn't work, because Matt's pride refused to let Rich go for one day of monogamous joy before swooping in to steal her.

He could have quick, dirty, meaningless sex with him.

...Interesting prospect.

Matt had resorted to many a quickie when it seemed like he was getting too attached to a skirt. Sometime in between kissing her and blowing a load onto her duvet, his infatuation lost its staying power. But maneuvering Rich into place would take a much more delicate operation than a pint of stout and some erotic lithographs.  
The first step was easy: get Rich blind-stinking drunk. Rich easily got so soused he didn't remember his own name.  
The second was difficult only because of Matt's aversion to displays of affection. He let his hand splay on Rich's knee during a viewing of Death Balls 3(Rich's movie choice) not kneading or massaging, just there. 

When Rich did not react, he went straight to phase 3: grabbing Rich and shoving his tongue down his throat before the awkwardness could set in. To Matt's surprise, Rich moved fluidly from laughing at a man on fire to snogging like a mule eating an apple. Rich's tonguework was sloppy and rough and should have been ridiculous, but Matt tented his trousers almost immediately from the stimulus. 

Phase four, mocking Rich until he went into bed without raising any objections, was promptly derailed when Rich grabbed two handfuls of Matt's meat seat and pressed him against the back of the sofa. Matt made a less-than-dignified noise into Rich's mouth as the American slipped a deft hand down the front of his trousers, cupping Lord Cardigan and the Light Brigade.

Phase five dissolved into a frantic dry-hump session as he and Rich tried simultaneously to have sex and disrobe each other. Rich's watch caught on his belt and they flipped onto the carpet in one horny mass, Matt on the bottom. It would have been terribly romantic if Rich hadn't landed elbow-first on his kidney. Luckily Rich understood his signal of a knee to the bollocks and backed up. He had his freed hand on Matt's belt, using it to pull him by his hips to the bedroom. Matt let himself be led, out of breath and completely out of phases. Rich was still smiling that insinuating smile, now paired with the bedroom eyes of an inebriated seal. Matt reminded himself to be angry later.

Now free of the constraints of sofa sex, Rich got directly to business. Matt's fly parted like the red sea, freeing the mighty tiger that had been pacing its cage all evening, then Rich put his mouth to work and Matt ran out of similes.

Rich was surprisingly good at giving head. Matt had to wonder, with what was left of his brain, when and where Rich had experimented. He also reminded himself that jealousy was pointless because he did not love Rich, he did not love what Rich was doing with his mouth. He did not love Rich's bum three times in quick succession. He did not love the little puppy-whimper than Rich made through his nose as he came. And he did not love the sight of Rich passed out beside him, all fucked out and smiling like a fat toddler. 

The hangover came the next morning like a reproach. Matt rolled over and was horribly disappointed to discover that Rich looked just as cute in the harsh light of dawn. He swore into his pants and tried to leave without making noise.

Matt had a few hours alone with his paper at the club. Luckily, Sir Berry was busy with the pinball table Rich had won in a thumb-wrestling contest and couldn't smell the shame on him. Matt was just beginning to deny he was worried when Rich slid into the seat across from him with a “Hel-looooooo.”

Matt nodded curtly, not looking up from his paper. He'd been on the same page since ten-thirty.

Rich enjoyed a round of “mail, gentlemen” with Ken. His smile was still stupidly pretty, it was like the beatification on the patron saint of wanking. 

“Morning, Matt,” Rich said, no difference in tone, no indication that anything was out of the ordinary.

Matt nodded again. Rich wet his lips and slid his hand absently down the leather arm of his chair. Matt had to cross his legs.

“I was just thinking,” Rich said, “we should go on a trip somewhere. Somewhere warm, like Newyorka.”

“It's Majorca, you tool,” Matt muttered.

Something picked at his pinky finger. Matt lifted his wrist and a warm hand slid into his.

“Sure, My-jorka,” Rich continued in his nasal whine, “or Rome. Or Italy.”

“Rome's in Italy, you berk.” Matt tried to ignore the blush creeping up his cheeks.

Rich's thumb stroked the back of his hand. Once Matt remembered how to breathe he asked Rich, “how the hell are you planning to pay for a trip right now? I have your money.”

Rich let another slow, lazy smile. “I could win it back from you. I'm really good at darts. Hey, I'd really like to blow you right now.”

Matt took a moment to process this statement. “1: in your dreams. 2: a blind cripple could best you at the board. 3: _aurghruh_ —” his sentence melted into an inarticulate cry as Rich slid his hand into Matt's front pocket in broad view of the rest of the club members. He took a discreet look around, but no one seemed to be looking. Rich still smiled at him. 

“I could do it in the bathroom. The regular one, not the scary one. I think it's like a Tardis, only full of hookers and magic instead of time travel. Hey, Hooker Who, there's a show for you!”

One of life’s fleeting moments of wordlessness struck Matt that day. Rich's stream-of-consciousness poured over him, drowning out the noise of the club. Matt realized his plan to seduce Rich had the opposite effect of what he'd hoped for, and in retrospect was really stupid. He would flee the country, travel through dark jungles and sandblasted deserts, scourging himself of his crush on this ridiculous manboy.

“Rich,” he croaked.

Rich stopped talking immediately.

Matt cleared his throat.

“My rooms?” he said.

Rich leaned forward. “The scary-bathroom-you with the turban said you'd go for that.”

Matt couldn't stop the smile spreading on his face. “Get in there you berk.”

He decided to put off fleeing for a few hours.


End file.
